A Game of Broken Odds: The Victors
by Kintsugade
Summary: A tribute to the ones who truly lost. After all, the Victors are the ones who lose the Hunger Games. [Collab with embriumm]
1. Prologue

_**Foreword**_

In the sixty-five years since their inception, I have watched every Victor win the crown. But I have yet to see someone truly escape the arena.

In the decades since the beginning of the bloodshed spectacle, dozens of children, fists clenched around swords and knives and arrows, have fallen beneath the remnants of their own humanity. But a select few, the unlucky ones, walked in as children, only to return clutching onto their spared lives as murderers. They are named Victors. The irony incites a bitterness in some, but honestly, most have no will left in them to care, because every single Victor eventually learns a simple truth:

 _The Games are not the end._

It's something that stays with them for life, tainting their subconscious; clawing at their insides. They say that nobody decent ever wins the Games, and it's true. It doesn't matter who they were before the reaping; if they were kind, a noble soul, or endlessly selfless. The arena changes them. If they manage to come out alive, they are no longer an individual. They become _Victors_. They are everything the Capitol glorifies. They are somebody who managed to beat the odds and come out above their opponents, who braved bloodshed and war. Somebody worthy of being draped in luxury. Somebody lucky enough to be reaped. Lucky enough to survive.

Lucky enough to learn that victory isn't all they make it out to be.

Nobody emerges unscathed. There are many who can look into a camera, smiling a perfect smile and partaking in interviews with glee, but even they aren't spared. What you don't see are the dark circles and red-rimmed eyes left by their nightmares, expertly hidden behind carefully applied makeup and a practiced facade. The knives tucked under pillows, a bitter comfort necessary for sleep. The lamps that burn until sunrise, without which the shadows coalesce into murderous figures and the silence blends into oaths of blood and vengeance. The images of their final adversaries found everywhere and nowhere all at once, with weapons in hand and eyes that scream of desperation _._

For them, victory isn't being the last one standing. It's the unspoken thank you in the air during their district's Parcel Day. It's sleeping through the night without a scream drowning in their throat. It's waking up to a radiant sun and a beautiful day that is natural and real, not manufactured for a picturesque arena. It's a hopeless dream that continues to be crushed every day.

Each Victor has a story, and while not all the stories are worth telling, all of them are worth listening to.

In my district, I am known as the one who tells of myths and miracles, a keeper of tales, if you will. With these pages I intend to tell the stories of the Victors, their legacies and their experiences. An attempt to collect their memories before those too are lost to corruption.

It will be a tribute, a final tribute, to those who played and lost the Game.

They deserve that much, at least.

Someday, maybe in a better world, someone will understand the ones who made it out, the Games they played, and the price they paid.

After all, the Victors are the ones who truly lose the Hunger Games.

 _-The Storyteller_

The 65th Year of the Hunger Games

* * *

 _We don't own the Hunger Games._

 _AN: Welcome to our tribute to the Victors, The Games We Play! And thanks so much for reading the start of our first project ever on Fanfiction! As mentioned, t_ _his will be a collection of stories from every Victor, you'll see when we start with the very first next chapter._

 _-Kintsugade and embriumm_


	2. i - The Tainted

**_The First Hunger Games_**

It didn't take long before Stellan realized that the Hunger Games was a story that the Capitol intended to weave into an epic.

The elements were all in one place, the setting, the characters, the god. It took place in an arena, a real one. The area was wide and circular, with the tributes' starting positions at the very edge, surrounding the pile of weapons and food at the center. The sand beneath their plates glittered gold, warmed by the overhead sun. Holographic screens were projected along the walls just above their heads to show the minute-long countdown. Beyond the screens, a massive audience was housed in the rows of seating.

Their cheering reminded him of his Reaping.

His District had cheered then, too. They had cheered for his death.

And there, above the mass of waving limbs and eager shouts, was the person Stellan had hated all his life.

Clad in the purple robes of an emperor, the god in this tale took a sip from his wineglass. President Hadrian Faustus regarded them with cold blue eyes, letting his stare pass over each tribute.

Stellan followed his gaze, sweeping his eyes across the expanse to his opposition, the twenty-three other characters in this story. There were a few thirteen year olds, even one or two fourteens, and the lone twelve year old who were trembling on their pedestals, looking ready to throw up, if anything. They weren't the glorified heroes that the Capitol expected for their perfect debut. Neither were the strong-looking boys from Four, Seven, and Nine. They looked like they could be contenders, but he doubted they were meant to be anything other than cannon fodders. Their Reapings were probably rigged too, as if any Reaping was actually random. All three of them were rebels, they were just here to make the Game interesting, none of them were going to be allowed to win.

He didn't know what the other tributes thought, but Stellan knew the ending of this story already.

Whichever way it went, the Victor of the First Hunger Games stood across from him. It was an open race between the three Capitol favorites: the District One lapdogs, children of Capitol loyalist soldiers, who had charmed half the audience each, and his own district partner, the proud, patriotic Peacekeeper's daughter. This was the Capitol's game, after all, and the tributes were simply pawns for mastermind. Somehow, in some way, Stellan had no doubt that the Victor who emerged would be one of the Capitol's, more specifically the President's, chosen ones.

And he would rather die than let one of them win.

Overhead, the shouting began to intensify, time was ticking away, there were seconds left for him to think, to plan, to prepare. But there was nothing left for him to prepare for. After all, he had expected this from the moment they announced the Games.

He had been halfway to the stage in the twenty seconds it took Didi Penski, the escort, to draw his inevitable name from the Reaping bowl. Stellan Reinhardt, only son of Bastian and Cyra Reinhardt, rebel generals of Two. _The tainted name._ His name.

His parents were gone, anyway. They had perished when they ran off to play heroes in one of the last battles of the Dark Days and left him an outcast, dismissed to the district orphanage. As if that hadn't been enough, he had been a fool to think that the Capitol had forgotten about him. After all, his district hadn't forgotten, nor had they forgiven.

Well, Stellan hadn't forgiven his district either. So he wasn't a perfect Capitol lapdog, but he wasn't idealistic enough to support rebel sentiments either, however much his parents tried make him.

 _The rebel in their ranks,_ his own people had whispered as he tread onto the stage.

Then Livia had been reaped, and District Two stood silent in horror. Had they actually believed that the Capitol would spare their favorites?

Served them right.

He would show them all. He resented every single one of them, he was meant to die, but there was no way he was going to let them have their perfect Victor. From the other side of the arena, the Ones were paying the rest of the tributes no attention, the girl was eyeing the weapons and her district partner was looking in her direction, but a few spots over, Livia's dark eyes were staring right through him. She was playing her part to the fullest.

They were the heroes.

" _Let the First Hunger Games begin!"_

He was the villain.

A gong rang out, echoing under the fiery sun and hanging in the fearful silence for what felt like an eternal moment. Then it faded.

All hell broke loose. And he didn't think anymore, he only ran.

* * *

He had already reached the weapons when he finally looked back.

The tributes were split between trembling on their pedestals and racing for the large brass doors that marked the only exit. He seemed to be the first one at the weapons, though Livia and District One were going to be there any second, so he was swiftly reaching for the nearest shortsword when something in the corner of his eye made him freeze in his tracks and his blood ran cold.

The holo-screens weren't displaying the golden flourishing numbers of the countdown anymore. Instead, each one projected a different crowd of people, not dressed in the flamboyant colors of the Capitol, their expressions of dread and horror a stark contrast to the live Capitolite audience. He watched one of the youngest tributes, a little girl from District Eight named Sara, he remembered, running to a spot below a screen with dark plumes of factory smoke in the background, calling for her mother. Soon enough, the camera focused in on a woman screaming, crying, and pushing her way to the front of the crowd, where she and her daughter were face to face for a moment, separated only by two screens and a deadly game.

Then a desperate boy shoved the girl to the ground in his escape, the mother cried out, and Stellan didn't want to watch anymore.

The districts. They were forcing every district to watch their children die and every tribute to see their family's faces as they fell. It was cruel, it was harsh, it was heartless. It was the Capitol. He could see President Faustus' smug smirk from here, watching and sipping his wine as chaos reigned the arena. Rage burned in his throat. For the first time, he almost understood why his parents did the things they did, and why they decided that the world needed heroes. Almost.

But maybe he was a villain in more ways than one.

Stellan turned away.

Only to find himself face to face with the cold eyes of his district partner.

Livia had a gladius in her hand and a scowl on her face as Stellan blocked her from his side of the weapons. He knew what she wanted, the only silver bow and matching quiver of arrows in the pile that she had spent her three days of training perfecting, and which, of course, he had positioned himself almost directly in front of.

"Get out of my way, Reinhardt," She spat out his name with all the contempt she had, as if he were the reason she was here now. In a way, he was.

He met her eyes with an even stare and hefted his sword, "Make me."

She lunged. All around them, the audience waited with bated breath for the first major battle of the Games, and a confrontation between two district partners, no less. Both were armed with almost identical weapons. It was a contest of pure skill now. President Faustus took a sip from his glass.

Her strike never made contact.

His sword was drawn up above his head in a metallic blur the moment she rushed him. It blocked her overhead blow with ease, leaving them face to face with their weapons locked. They traded several more blows, steel clashing against steel, each silently sizing the other up.

They had been looking to kill each other from the second the gong rang.

Someone beat them both to it.

Livia had pulled back, gladius lifted for another slash, when she toppled forward. Stellan just managed to twist his sword and step away before she impaled herself or him. A glance behind told him all he needed to know. A mace and a knife lay side by side, embedded in his former opponent's back.

The crowd screamed in approval.

She was supposed to be a contender, but look at where she was now: fallen, dead, with the people she had tried so hard to impress cheering for her murderer. Or rather, murderers.

"Doing alright, Stellan?"

Stood directly in front of him, in all their blonde-haired glory, were Magnus Vittori and Amethyst Arlington, tributes of District One. Amethyst stepped forward, a knife in her left hand as she unsheathed another dagger with right.

The boy from Two shrugged, "Not bad. Livia's not doing so well though."

She didn't meet his eyes, "So her name was Livia."

"Didn't even bother to remember any of our names," He laughed shortly, the sound thick with contempt, disgust, and maybe, maybe just a hint of resentment. Because he'd gotten to the point where he wished he'd done the same.

"Not quite, Reinhardt." Magnus spoke up from his position behind Amethyst, his eyes narrowed menacingly, "After all, who could forget the rebel from Two?"

His words sent a chill through Stellan, which soon gave way to burning fury.

The word burned, it was something he would never be rid of. It tainted him, the title that his parents were so proud of. Stellan was tired of all of it, of everyone trying to dictate who he was and what he was supposed to be, whether it be his parents, or the Capitol, or Magnus now.

His hand reached behind him, withdrawing a second weapon from the pile. He slid his sword back into his belt. Fury coursed through his resolve, just as it had done for years, too many years. He finally gave in.

Stellan lunged.

The spear he had pulled from the pile almost hit Amethyst on his first strike, but she darted away with a slash of her knives. Abruptly, Stellan blocked her knife with the shaft, ducked under the swing of Magnus' mace, and tucked his spear close. He thrust the spearhead again. This time, there was a muffled curse as it grazed Amethyst's leg, but again, Magnus was there to knock it away, keeping her covered defensively. Stellan smirked, they hadn't expected him to have been able to fight. But he was a Reinhardt, protegé of legendary rebel commanders. He was trained from childhood, for a different purpose, but it didn't matter now. The strikes and parries went back and forth until, finally, someone made a fatal mistake.

A swing of the spear batted Magnus' mace away, and as Amethyst struggled to adjust, Stellan let go of his spear. It hurtled past Magnus.

Amethyst's gaze followed its trail.

She didn't see the sword arcing toward her from the other side. It only took a second before it dug deep into her side. The girl from One who, with the odds, could've won this twisted game, fell.

It was easier than he'd thought.

She didn't even have time to scream. Magnus did, though, letting out a cry of anguish before lifting his mace as if to strike. Stellan hefted his sword.

Something in Amethyst's eyes stopped them both. For the first time, Stellan noticed, the crowd had fallen silent.

"Magnus, just go. Run," She pleaded.

Her district partner looked as if to protest, but she shook her head.

"Run, please."

Magnus turned to go, hesitated for a moment before scooping up Amethyst's knife, and sprinting out. He didn't look back.

"Just you and me now," Amethyst's voice was the only sound in the room.

A glimmer of understanding seemed to pass between the dying girl and her soon-to-be killer.

Stellan approached her, still clutching his sword tightly, "I wasn't going to fight him, you know, not unless I had no choice."

She sighed, "I guess...I'm tired of fighting, after so long. It feels like a lifetime."

"Do you want me to end it?"

Her reply is noticeably fainter, but she still smiles radiantly, "No, it's okay now. I can't feel anything. It's like I'm drifting away."

So the boy from Two sat down beside the girl from One, districts and rivalries forgotten. A few heartbeats passed before either one spoke, and when she did, it couldn't have been louder than a whisper.

"I thought I'd do anything to win, and I did. But it doesn't matter now, does it? I'm tired of being the villain."

She grabbed his hand, eyes desperate and voice breathless, "Don't let me go down as the villain."

Stellan took a deep breath, voice low enough so that only she could hear, "You aren't. None of us are the real ones here."

He thought he saw her faint smile, but he didn't trust himself to look her in the eye. And then he heard her, one last time.

"Don't let them make you their villain either."

The cannons rang out so immediately that he couldn't be sure if she had spoken at all.

Each one marked a death, they had been told, and Stellan counted eight. A third of the playing field, gone within the first fifteen minutes.

Stellan was done, he was _done._ He couldn't do this anymore. The boy from Two drew a shuddering breath, he'd thought he could deal with it. He'd thought that he didn't care if he lived or died as long as he went out with a bang. But now, surrounded by dust and death and the desperation of so many, no, he couldn't. Not anymore. Not like this.

The ninth cannon blast was the last. It was the only one that lingered.

He swiped a hand across his face, feeling blood streak him with crimson, branding him a killer. But he couldn't find it in himself to care anymore. Rebel or loyalist, hero or villain, tainted or innocent, none of it mattered.

Stellan Reinhardt just wanted to _live._

Amethyst Arlington was gone. Along with Livia, that meant two of the favored Victors dead already, these Games weren't turning out to be what was expected. Two heroes of the story were dead by the first chapter; the supposed villain was still standing. _He_ was still standing. He made the mistake of turning around. Immediately, he faced a screen and the blue eyes of a killer met the hatred from the district of the girl lying lifeless at his feet.

 _Don't let them make you their villain._

Too late for that.

But forget the villains, the supposed heroes hadn't lived up to their names either, with two of them falling early and last one running from a fight. Not the most heroic of tales the Capitol expected of them. And he knew by now that everything depended on what the Capitol wanted. But what appealed to them more than a tale of patriotism and heroism?

Stellan wasn't even surprised when the answer came easily to him.

It was the same reason the Capitol adored Livia, Amethyst, and Magnus. It wasn't just because they were loyal and patriotic. It was because they were going to do their duty, they were going to atone for the sins of their districts.

He didn't care what he had to do anymore. He was going to do it.

The Capitol loved a redemption story.

* * *

When Stellan Reinhardt steeled himself and stepped forward to speak, leaving the lifeless girl from One behind, Hadrian Faustus had to admit, he was curious. The President had felt a pang of annoyance when the boy from District Two defeated two of his favored tributes, but he was an open-minded man. He just hoped that whatever the boy had to say was worth his time.

Reinhardt spoke with a loud, commanding voice that Faustus, admittedly, didn't expect him to possess. The boy had never seemed like the talking type.

"I know I come from a family with a history of dishonor, treachery, and treason. My parents were Bastian and Cyra Reinhardt, prominent rebel commanders, I was born to be a rebel."

Murmurs arose in the stands, not only in the arena either, Faustus could see unease from the districts on the screens.

"The thing is, the rebels, they think what they're doing is heroic," His eyes darted, locking on different people until they finally landed on Hadrian Faustus, "But I've learned things from the people here too. I've learned what true heroes do. They fight, even die, and give everything for their country, they don't create more strife by biting the hand that feeds them. We deserve this. We deserve what we got, we deserve our punishment, we deserve the Hunger Games."

There it was, a tell-tale flicker in the eyes. The boy didn't believe what he was saying, not one bit. But that was okay, few ever did. The trick was getting the masses to believe you. Faustus himself, well-versed in the art of deception, could see through the act, but the people were a petty lot. They would throw their support behind anyone with pretty words and an elaborate mask. That was all Faustus required of whoever emerged Victor: to be able to play the part. It was easy to see that the boy feared dying, easy to manipulate. Two of his favorites were gone already, Faustus needed options. Maybe this boy would do.

"Divided we fall, and I hope you'll stand with me. And I will correct the sins of the past for betterment of our future. For Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever."

Reinhardt stood there for a moment, surrounded by silence and disbelief. Then, almost miraculously, the audience cheered.

But the boy's eyes never left that of the President. Painstakingly slowly, Faustus held his glass up in a toast. Relief swarmed the boy's irises, the districts regarded him with a measure of disdain now, but they weren't the ones who mattered. President Faustus smirked.

He'd better live up to his promises, there was a long way to go, the Games were just beginning.

But yes, Stellan Reinhardt would do.

* * *

It came down to Stellan, Magnus, and the boy from Seven. In just two days, twenty-four had been cut down to the final three. The outside of the Colosseum, where the Bloodbath took place, was the city of Ancient Rome, though deserted without a living person in sight besides the tributes. All of three of the ones to make it this far had been able to grab at least and weapon and some food from the Colosseum either during the Bloodbath or through a return trip to the pile of supplies sometime afterward. There were houses too, but they proved to be detrimental when tributes were trapped inside, much like when Stellan cornered the fourteen year old girl from Five, his second kill.

Stellan was broken. He was a shattered, fragmented version of himself, haphazardly pieced back together for no other reason than to endure, to continue, to live. But he wasn't living anymore, was he?

No, Stellan Reinhardt's will to live died alongside the girl from Five, Amethyst Arlington, his parents, maybe even the rebellion that tore his family apart. He just wanted to _survive._ But that wasn't quite right either. He didn't know what he wanted anymore, he'd thrown everything away when he gave himself over to the Capitol.

He just didn't want to die.

Please.

The scorching sun beat down on the fiery-hot sand path Stellan forced himself to follow. The sandals and dark leather tunic he wore did nothing to alleviate the burning heat, but somehow, step after step, spear in hand, the eighteen year old boy made his way to the place where it would all end.

Because that was all he was, really. A boy.

He finally stumbled into their fight at the arena's center, just outside the Colosseum where it all began. Magnus and Seven were locked in combat already, mace on axe. They barely even noticed Stellan's entrance. All the better for what he had in mind. Stellan hefted his spear in one hand and drew his gladius in the other. Without warning, Magnus sidestepped and twisted to avoid a swing of the axe, and that was all it took. The boy from One erupted in a rage when he caught a glimpse of Amethyst's killer.

"You!"

Face contorted in fury, Magnus punched Seven hard enough to knock him to the ground, and lunged for Stellan. Mace outstretched, he was inches from reaching his target.

If only Magnus had thought things through.

If only they had noticed him earlier.

If only his enemy hadn't had a precious few seconds to prepare.

If only...maybe the whole Game could have ended differently.

But Stellan was ready. And he didn't hesitate when he finally threw.

"I'm so sorry," He whispered.

No longer darkened in anger, the eyes of the boy from One widened one last time. Fear, pain, the last dredges of fury, and finally acceptance were reflected in those once-beautiful, once-adored sapphire blue irises. Then, as if a switch had flickered out the light in those eyes, there was nothing.

The mace clattered to the ground as the spear impaled Magnus at close range, its force even sending his body back several feet.

The boy from Two fell to his knees, taking a shaky breath. Then, his eyes found the lumberjack from Seven. The hulking boy was back on his feet and, like Stellan, he just wanted things over with. He raised his axe as if to throw.

Stellan had nothing but his sword in hand, and that would do nothing to protect from a range attack. So he did the only thing no one expected him to do. He threw his last weapon away.

The gladius, not meant for throwing, sailed over Seven's head. The lumberjack scowled, but his opponent was unarmed now, he lifted his axe to throw.

Stellan threw first.

The boy from Seven stopped, incredulous. And Amethyst's dagger, which Magnus had taken and then Stellan had slipped from the former's belt during the distraction, lodged in his chest. Finally, he staggered and fell. Second place, so extraordinarily close, but so impossibly far.

" _Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the Victor of the 1st Hunger Games, Stellan Reinhardt of District Two!"_

In his office, the President raised a glass.

In the future that Reinhardt helped ensure, there would be those who power or claw their way to the top, but very few would be able to, not only understand, but also play the Game the way it was meant to be played. Stellan Reinhardt was one of them.

"Well played, Victor."

* * *

There were some things that first Victor would soon learn and some that he would never discover.

He would find out that Magnus Vittori and Amethyst Arlington had been cousins. Both families would mourn together, placing flowers on their graves every month. He would also learn that Magnus had been born named Magnificent, but dubbed himself Magnus to avoid pretentiousness of it all. He'd truly loved his family though, despite their often overbearing frivolous nature. He would discover that Livia's father fell out of loyalty to the Capitol after her death. He was executed for trying to assassinate the Minister of Defence in retaliation, and in his stead, the rule that no Peacekeeper could have children was implemented.

However, he would never learn that, by throwing the last knife into the boy from Seven, he had robbed the district of their best worker in that age group. Or that the girl from Five had a severe fear of heights and couldn't bring herself jump out of the window, a fall she probably could have survived, when he caught her in the house. He would never know that District One's Marvellous Vittori would volunteer for the 74th Games to prove himself and do what his predecessor could not. No one besides his family knew him as Marvellous though, everyone knew him by the shortened name he'd given himself when, like Magnus, he had found his birth name to be too flamboyant. They knew him as Marvel.

But Stellan would watch tribute after tribute try and claim the title with his tactic and see almost all of them fall short, knowing that he gave them the idea.

For now though, none of that mattered. Stellan Reinhardt was alive and breathing, and that was that.

The rebel's son fell to his knees, crumbling beneath the weight of four lives and everything he had betrayed to make it there.

* * *

Victors:

1st HG - Stellan Reinhardt, 18, District 2

* * *

 _AN: So here we are, the very first Victor! Hope you enjoyed his chapter, please tell us what you thought, and we'll see you next time with the second Victor!_


	3. ii - The Unrepentant

_**The Second Hunger Games**_

Wade couldn't stand the sight of blue anymore.

His first sight in the arena had been the green-blue of ocean waves lapping at the shoreline. They had stood in a circle on a cliffside, surrounding the new implementation this year, a golden horn containing supplies and weapons that the Capitolites. They called it the "Cornucopia", which was apparently the Greek name for the "horn of plenty". He had to admit, the Capitol had a flair for the dramatic.

He'd had the fortune of having his pedestal positioned on the side of the circle facing the cliff edge so that he could peer at the endless sea stretched out below, behind him was a forest so densely populated he could barely see fifty feet in. Wade had been lucky, some of the others had been unfortunate enough to stand on a pedestal balancing precariously close to the cliff edge. One of the youngest tributes in the arena had made the mistake of turning around to look.

Wade could remember it with crystal clarity, he'd been positioned almost directly across from the boy after all. The little thirteen year old from District One had panicked, mouth already open for a frantic scream, when he took one instinctive step forward. Wade could see in the boy's eyes, the second he had taken the step, he knew the extent of what he had done. The momentum had carried the tribute forward and his foot slipped off the pedestal.

Then there had been a blast as the mine beneath his feet blew, and all Wade could see was red.

Except for his eyes. The golden-haired boy's eyes, full of fear and trepidation, had been blue.

Wade squeezed his eyes shut. But the images seared into his memory only danced more vividly across his eyelids. The wave of heat and scent of death that passed over them all, the splatter of crimson across the forsaken ground, the horror echoed in blue irises so like his own.

He never wanted to end up like that.

 _But it's okay. You won._

That just brought back another vision, this from earlier than the last. It was Calder, bronze-haired and blue-eyed, a spitting image of Wade himself.

In the Justice Building, his fifteen year old brother pulled him close and told him to win.

" _Come back, okay? Whatever it takes."_

He did. He came back, not just for himself, but for Calder, for his family, for everyone who cared about him. There was no way he'd let his loved ones lose him the way the other families had lost the tributes he'd faced. Maybe that's what had set them apart. Wade had just been more desperate, more skilled, more willing to kill, or maybe just more lucky. It didn't matter. Somehow, he'd managed to win.

And that made everything alright. At least, it was supposed to.

The memories blurred, and his mind brought up another scene.

In his fourth day in the arena, he met a familiar pair of eyes. The fourteen year old boy from Six was caught red-handed while trying to steal Wade's backpack. He was no match for the eighteen year old and Wade easily shoved him to the ground, knife in hand. He was trying to work up the guts to bring down the knife when the younger boy finally looked him in the eye. Everything stopped.

The boy from Six had copper colored hair and blue eyes, maybe he had some District One blood in him. That was all it took for Wade to remember, the kid was even younger than Calder. The eyes were more bright blue than the aqua, blue-green hue native to Four, but that wasn't what took him aback. It was the defiance, the desperation behind the irises and Wade knew there and then that he couldn't kill that kid.

The look he gave Wade mirrored the one Calder gave him when they said goodbye.

The boy, Corin, stared up at him as he did the one thing he regretted most from his time in the arena.

" _You know, we'd have a better chance if we stick together. You in?"_

It would be almost funny, he killed five people in that arena, yet all he can think about is asking some fourteen year old kid one question.

The thing is, that question was probably what saved his life.

" _It's the final three, we have to split sometime."_

 _Wade stared back at the boy who'd become like his little brother within the four days together._

" _We can stay together until the girl from Seven is gone."_

" _And then? What happens when we're the only two left?"_

" _Then we let the Gamemakers choose."_

The more he thought about it, he'd realized that they were probably the only two who'd ever found a friend in the Games.

And he was grateful.

* * *

The steam from the train blended perfectly with the grey skies of District Eight.

Accustomed to the clear sea-scented air of his home district, he could almost taste the impurity of the air in his first breath. Wade gaped, watching the district's people move on with their lives, unaffected. They were used to it.

He continued off the train, his escort leading him towards the district square. Soon the Hunger Games would be the same. It would become nothing more than a tradition, albeit a miserable one, but the people would become used to it. It was already happening. Wade would be the first Victor to attend a "victory tour" across all the districts in reverse order, only skipping over his own district, and then the Capitol. Then the festivities would end in his home district. It would be an annual celebration of the year's Hunger Games, they said.

Maybe it would feel less wrong if he actually felt like a Victor.

They clapped for him in District Eight when he made his speech, but it was no real applause. It was still more than he expected though, he killed both tributes of their district, the girl in the bloodbath and the boy in the final eight. The girl never had a chance, if he hadn't killed her, someone else would have, she just happened to be reaching for the same backpack as he was. But the boy could have made it to the finale if only he hadn't run into them six days into the Games.

 _Corin saw him first._

" _Someone's following us."_

 _Sure enough, a slight rustle in the bushes around them confirmed their suspicions. Wade stopped in his tracks. He caught a glimpse of a boy ducking back behind the leaves about twenty feet back. He was wearing a purple t-shirt, the color of District Eight's arena attire._

" _Corin, take the supplies."_

" _What?"_

" _Just go."_

" _But-"_

" _I'll find you. Trust me."_

 _The fourteen year old didn't argue, taking their backpack and the last of their supplies, and disappeared behind thick foliage. Wade himself veered to the left, giving no indication that he'd even seen the sly boy from Eight. There was no need, he knew the boy wouldn't follow him._

 _What the boy wanted were the supplies he'd given to Corin._

 _Just as he thought, the tribute was no longer behind him, having tailed Corin the minute they split. Wade gripped his spear. There was no telling whether the plan would work, but it seemed like the Eight boy had been desperate enough._

 _As if by signal, there was a yell nearby and Wade shook himself out of his trance. District Eight must have found Corin. It was time to move._

 _He found them easily, following the trampled plants and upturned dirt left in the two boys' wake. Corin was barely managing to fend off the crazed boy whose desperation seemed to have increased tenfold at the possibility of food. So Wade didn't waste a second, approaching behind them and, in one smooth motion, stabbed the tip of his spear into the last Eight tribute's back._

 _The boy fell just as easily as his district partner had. Corin froze, staring up at his ally in shock. For a second, everyone expected the boy from Four to stab his young ally, yet instead, all he did was reach down to help the fourteen year old up._

" _I-I thought you left," Corin whispered._

" _I saw Eight briefly a few days ago. He was stealing supplies from the boy from Two, bet that's how he made it so far. So I thought I'd set a trap for him. Would've told you, but I couldn't risk tipping him off."_

 _The younger boy gave him a long look. Eventually, he just nodded, accepting Wade's explanation, and gave him a slight smile._

" _Together until the finale?" Corin asked._

 _Wade couldn't help but notice that the question sounded more like a plea._

 _The boy from Six felt more like bait than an ally._

 _So Wade looked into his eyes reassuringly and smiled back._

" _I wouldn't have it any other way."_

Even now, Wade wished he'd meant it.

* * *

Even though he completely extinguished their chance at a Victor, Wade was still better received in District Eight than in Seven.

The people of the lumber district glared and hissed at him as he took the stage. They had been so close. District Seven had the best track record out of all the districts so far, second place in the first Games, and this year they could have had a Victor if their girl hadn't lost in the finale. Third place for the girl from Seven.

During his speech written by his frivolous Capitolite escort, he thanked the girl from Seven for her sacrifice. He honored her courage, her strength, her refusal to give up until her last breath.

As if she had a choice. As if any of them had a choice. It wasn't courage if the alternative was death, just as it wasn't victory if he was the last one standing. He was just a survivor, yet they made him out to be a champion.

He didn't even deserve the title of Victor. In all fairness, the victory belonged to Olive, the District Seven girl, who gave each of her opponents a fair fight, who ran into Wade at the Cornucopia on the first day with an axe in hand and, seeing that he was unarmed, ran right past him with a nod. She hadn't realized what would happen in the end. On the ninth and last day, Wade would battle her, spear on axe, all acts of compassion forgotten. Corin would stand by, just as his ally had planned, waiting for the opportune time when Wade would lock their weapons together. And when the time was right, he would plunge a knife into her back.

That was all she got for being noble, for playing the Game honorably: a knife in the back and the meaningless words of the boy who planned her demise and then had the audacity to say " _thank you for your sacrifice"._

Or maybe, the victory belonged to Corin, who beat the odds, becoming the first tribute under sixteen to make into the final three. Although Wade had devised the plot that brought down Olive, it would never have worked without his ally. Likewise, without Corin noticing their pursuer, Wade would never have managed to take out the Eight boy.

There were too many things that worked, which shouldn't have worked. Just as there were too many who deserved the victory, but were cheated at the finish line. He shouldn't have won, he didn't deserve to.

Wade knew that much, at least.

But since when had any Victor who won been the one who deserved it most?

Olive had a family who glared and spit curses at him under their breath. So he forced himself to look straight ahead and refused to meet their eyes as he thanked their daughter for dying.

* * *

He never apologized, not once.

The closest he came was in the last of three consecutive districts in which he'd had a connection with their tributes. As he began his speech, the people of District Six looked him in the eye with glares burning with fury.

Wade didn't blame them.

"Corin was my partner, my friend, practically my brother. He was everything in a place where we should have had nothing. I'll tell you now, I was lucky and honored to have been his ally."

A yell erupted from the disconcerted masses.

"He wasn't lucky to have been yours!"

Taken aback, Wade snapped his eyes in the direction of the outcry, inadvertently locking gazes with a young man around Wade's age, with copper hair and crystal blue irises that stared through his soul. Those eyes. He knew that meant even before he saw the three boys standing by with their parents in the area reserved for tribute families. He didn't even remember what it was like to have a heart until it dropped with a pang of dread and resignation.

Why did Corin Mclaren's brothers have to look exactly like him?

Even now, Wade still remembered how those eyes looked as their light flickered out.

He was ashamed that he ever tried to forget.

 _The shocked expression on the girl from Seven's face shook him to the core. But it was done. The girl fell, knife embedded in her spine. No cannon went off though, she wasn't dead yet, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she would be soon. Wade was grateful to whatever pittance of luck he still had that he couldn't see the girl's fading eyes as he readied his spear and stabbed downwards._ _The penultimate echo of the cannon filled the expanse of the arena and its two last occupants. Wade drew in a shuddering breath. There was just one last order of business left before he could go home._

 _He didn't spare her body another glance._

 _Corin did however, shaking as he observed his fallen adversary. In that moment, Wade didn't see a tribute, a competitor, an obstacle in his way. He saw a normal fourteen year old boy from the transportation district forced to do things he never wanted to do, to abandon his childhood far too quickly, to become someone he wasn't. But that only lasted for a minute._

" _Wade? We...we did it. We're the only ones left."_

 _The boy's eyes were wide and fearful, as if pleading for Wade to reassure him that it was all a dream. Wade wished it was, wished with all his might._

 _Somehow he managed to crack a humorless grin, pieces of his old charm still intact, "Yeah kid, we are. I'm proud of you."_

 _Corin beamed, but worry flashed across his features, "But...what now?"_

 _In response, Wade just smiled his old, good-natured smile, and held his arms out for a hug. The apprehension in his younger ally's face seemed to fade for the time being as they embraced. Wade envied the certainty with which his ally trusted him. All his conviction in the inherent goodness of people had been sucked out of him the moment the gong sounded. He wished that he were still the person he was before his pedestal locked into place. He wished that he and Corin could've been friends in another world, one away from the iron grip of the Capitol and their annual tradition of children killing children. Or maybe, he wished that they hadn't met at all if they were fated to meet in a place like this._

 _They were trapped in a place where wishes were futile and dreams were obsolete, but Wade refused to let them take away whatever fragments of his humanity he had left. It wasn't much._

 _When he finally spoke, it was soft enough that the cameras couldn't eavesdrop and so that only the two of them, the setting sun, and the fiery sky could bear witness to his next words._

" _Thank you, for everything. And I'm sorry...I really am."_

 _Pressed against his shoulder, he could feel Corin smile at his first words, before the younger boy tensed in confusion. His ally, his friend, and his final opponent was slipping out of their embrace, looking up at him and about to ask him what he meant._

 _Then there was a glint of steel, a dagger Wade had slipped from his sleeve planted itself between his shoulder blades, and the boy fell._

 _He forced himself to look the dying boy in the eyes as his life slipped away. Wade owed him that much, and so much more that he'd never be able to repay. But the last glance Corin gave him with those betrayed, blue eyes looked so much like Calder's that Wade's heart was gripped with panic. He quickly composed himself when he remembered. Calder was waiting for him. He was alive, he was going home._

 _But Corin, who reminded him so much of his younger brother, who saved his life more than once, wasn't. Wade had been prepared though, he had expected to feel empty, hollow, disbelieving that he_ killed _a friend, someone who never even questioned his loyalty. He was dead wrong._

 _He felt something. He felt relief, beautiful, freeing relief._

 _Somehow, he smiled. It was a real, true smile, filled to the brim with lightness and alleviation. He even laughed, unburdened, as if a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders._ _Yet, even as his heart sunk into the pit of his stomach, he couldn't stop laughing._

 _With a final, metallic boom of a cannon, he had won. It seemed unjust that the last send-off for Corin, who had been lively and exuberant, was something so disjointed and cold. He didn't have time to dwell on it though, the words of the presenter began even before the cannon had fully faded._

" _Presenting the Victor of the Second Annual Hunger Games, Wade Carrigan of District Four!"_

 _As Corin's cannon died away, he felt like more of a monster than ever._

 _The Games ended with the red sky casting a silhouette over a boy, a Victor, laughing almost maniacally as they brought him out of the arena._

Corin's family was still glaring as the Peacekeepers pushed through the horde, trying to capture the brother who'd yelled. The people of Six weren't giving way, forcing the Peacekeepers back, fixating Wade with glares of their own. This time another brother spoke up, ignoring the chaos around him and focusing only on the Victor on the stage.

"He trusted you, and _that's_ how you repay him."

That was it. Wade couldn't take it anymore, not after going through three districts of silent blame and resentment. Yes, a part of him knew that he deserved all of it and more, it was his punishment. But a part of him wanted to scream the truth. Even though Wade Carrigan was the last one standing, he wasn't the Victor.

For the first time, he looked the Mclaren family in the eye. A violent shout in a voice he couldn't believe was his own, erupted with pent-up frustration.

"Stop, just stop!"

True to his words, everything in the masses stopped, even the Peacekeepers. Ignoring the feeble protests from his escort about not following the script, the latest Victor shoved the microphone stand away and yelled his next words into the square.

"I did it for my brother. I wanted to live and I wanted to see him again, so I did what I had to. If it were any of you in that arena, can you guarantee that you wouldn't have done the same?"

The animosity in the crowd seemed to diminish, replaced by whispers and stares. Wade stared back, gaze sweeping across the audience until he settled on the Mclaren family as if daring them to respond. It was an almost reverent silence for moment, until the last Mclaren brother jutted his chin out in defiance, shouting back just as furiously.

"You did it for your brother, _I don't even have a brother anymore!_ "

The Peacekeepers were on him instantly, dragged him and his brothers away as they screamed curses at Wade. The Victor himself didn't even react, standing in stunned silence. Something in those words had finally broken him.

The Mclaren brother's eyes widened, having never left Wade's features. When the Victor from Four faced him again, there was the tell-tale glimmer of tears in his clear blue eyes.

"Me neither," Wade didn't even care that his voice broke at the end. He spun around and forced himself to walk off the stage, leaving pandemonium in his wake. As soon as he stepped off the wretched stage, he sprinted for the train and ran into his room, slamming the door behind him.

Then, he cried.

Sobs wracked his body, he couldn't even remember the last time he'd cried this hard. But he had spoken the truth: both their brothers were gone, only for different reasons. Corin was dead, whereas Calder, kind, compassionate Calder, wanted nothing to do with Wade again. His own brother, his closest family member, and his best friend, hated him.

 _It was sunset when he returned to District Four for the first time after his Hunger Games and he could barely contain his excitement. The sky glowed with a warm, fiery orange like the comfort of an ignited hearth in the dead of winter. Beyond the seaside homes, he could see the beginning of the infinite sea, still the same shade of blue as he remembered. Wade breathed in and out, inhaling the saltwater air. Sometimes, the simple things were enough._ _Yes, he won a game only murderers win, yes, he had five lives weighing on his conscience, and yes, he was probably the most despised person in eleven districts. Suddenly none of it mattered, because he was alive, back in his district, and he was going to see his family again. And that made everything worth it, even the dying eyes full of betrayal that had haunted him until that moment._

 _It seemed like all of District Four was there to welcome him back, cheering and clapping for their very own Victor. Still, Wade pushed through the crowd, looking for the only people he wanted to see. He smiled brightly when he caught sight of his parents. As he drew closer however, his footsteps faltered._

 _The small smiles on his family's faces were hesitant and uneasy. The way they stared at him with wary eyes, it was as if he were an animal that a single wrong move could provoke. Every time he looked in their eyes, he only saw Corin's irises staring back at him. They looked the same as Corin did when he was cornered by the crazed boy from Eight, wide and fearful._

 _Even as they tried to remedy the situation by plastering bright expressions on their faces, Wade stood, stunned. He could see the truth, his own family couldn't stand the sight of him. There was a blur of movement as his aunts and uncles told him they were glad he was back, his father clapped him on the back, and his mother hugged him, calling him her sweet son. Wade just nodded in muted silence even as his heart denied it all._

 _Finally, he withdrew from their embrace, his puzzled eyes asking the unspoken question. Painstakingly slowly, his relatives receded to reveal Calder, who stood meekly in the back, shifting from foot to foot._

" _Cal?"_

 _His younger brother met his eyes at last. Immediately, the realization that he was actually seeing his brother again seemed to hit Calder for the first time. It hit Wade again too, there and then, that this was what he'd fought tooth and nail to come back to. As matching grins eased onto their faces, and his family relaxed with the reassurance that all of them were back together, Wade realized one more thing, something that finally lifted the weight on his shoulders._

 _He didn't regret any of it._

 _If this was his real prize for winning, then he would do it a hundred times over._

" _I knew it," he began softly, with a tone full of relief, "I knew it would be worth it in the end. Once I got back, once we're all together again, I knew I wouldn't be sorry."_

 _It was as if Wade's words had awoken something in Calder, something that had been buried beneath the relief of seeing his brother again. Calder's smile stiffened as he slowly withdrew from his brother_.

" _You aren't sorry at all? Not for any of the things you did?" Cal shook his head, his cheerful grin melting into a scowl. Wade's mother put a hand on Calder's shoulder as if to placate him, but his younger brother shook her off._

" _I didn't have a choice, Cal. They were going to kill me!"_

 _Calder just stared in disbelief, his voice was barely audible amid the noise in Wade's head._

" _Corin wasn't going to kill you."_

 _Wade looked around, where the hearty celebrations were still being held, unaware of the sudden coldness around the Victor and his family._

" _All of it, I did it for you, all of you. And you can't even forgive me for the things I had to do," He accused, voice breaking, "I don't want to live the rest of my life in regrets, wondering whether it was worth it. I can't be sorry, and I won't be. I just did what needed to be done, I'm not sorry for surviving."_

 _Most of his family avoided his stare, Wade swept his gaze from each family member to the only one who still met his eyes. Calder looked at him, eyes akin to Corin's blue irises before he fell. Wade recognized the emotion in those eyes now._

 _It was betrayal._

" _No. You're not Wade anymore," Calder's expression hardened, "Wade, my brother, wouldn't say things like that, wouldn't do things like that. You're not my brother anymore, you can't be."_

Wade stood up, hearing the sharp staccato steps of high heels against the hardwood floor, no doubt his escort here to scream at him. He immediately locked his door before she arrived, pounding and screeching. But the Victor couldn't hear any of it.

All he heard were the voices in his head.

" _Together until the finale?"_

" _Wade? We're the only ones left."_

" _You're not Wade anymore."_

" _You're not my brother, you can't be."_

He hadn't seen his family since the day he stepped off the train, residing alone in his mansion, his reward for winning. But he'd lost the real prize. The blue he had looked forward to seeing again was gone because they wouldn't even look at him.

Maybe his family was wrong for not accepting him after they knew he did all that for them. Maybe Calder was wrong for judging his actions after telling him to do whatever it took to come home. Or maybe he was wrong for giving in to the rules of their game. Perhaps they were all partly right and partly wrong.

Perhaps it doesn't matter, the result would have been same regardless. He transformed from the kind, courageous, valiant protector into the villain, the bad guy, the traitor. He became the heartless one.

After all that, it was only fitting that he won a wicked game.

* * *

Victors

1st HG - Stellan Reinhardt, 18, District 2

2nd HG - Wade Carrigan, 18, District 4

* * *

 _Well, that was a long time coming. But here we are, our second Victor and the first from District Four. Please let us know what you think of Wade and this chapter!_


End file.
